


Sharpened Minds Can Cut, But Guilt Drowns Us All

by gaylock



Series: Hurting Together [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Bisexual John, Deduction, Disguised Sherlock, Guns, Hurt, John Works For Mycroft, John is a secret agent, John is in love, M/M, Minor Violence, Mycroft IS the British Government, Pain, Sherlock is a high-functioning sociopath, Sherlock is in Love, Sherlock is in disguise, Sherlock is pretending to be someone else, Sherlock-centric, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8304269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock





	

John is waiting in Sherlock's bedroom when he returns (home) to the estate from shoe shopping with Mary, and he isn't even drunk.

"You're back! Finally! Where have you been? Never mind, I don't care, I got back hours ago and I've been waiting here forever! Come on, come on, come on, put the stuff down. What are you even carrying? Whatever it is, put it down and come on."

Sherlock's smile is soft and fond, a thing of tenderness he had long stopped thinking himself capable of. He places his bags on the floor and steps close to John, reaching up to smooth down his hair. "How much coffee did you drink on the plane?" he asks. "And when did you last sleep?"

"Sleep is for the weak. Besides, I've been working," John tells him. His answering smile says I belong to Sherlock Holmes and his eyes scream his excitement. "Come on, let's go to the arena." He bounds out the door, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Sherlock follows him.

He does.

 

-l-

 

"Okay, okay," Sarah says, gesticulating wildly. They are on Irene's floor of the Estate, having what Molly terms a 'sleepover.' Sherlock has seen such things depicted on the television. They eat ice cream and paint their nails and watch terrible movies. Irene seems bored, but Sherlock can read happiness in the small lines around her eyes.

They have started drinking now, and Sarah has engaged them in a ridiculous game. She insists that it is the only way to keep Anthea from wandering back to her office.

"I've got a good one!" Sarah declares. She turns to Mary. "Marry, fuck, kill: crime boss Jim Moriarty, our boss Mr. Holmes and renegade agent Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's next breath is sharp and fast, a whistle of air that rattles in his chest. (Kill, kill, Sherlock the traitor, Sherlock the monster, Sherlock the nothing with no one.)

Mary laughs. "Oh, that's hard. Well, the sex part is easy: Sherlock. Do I have to have sex with whichever one I marry?"

"Of the three, you would prefer physical intimacy with Sherlock?" Sherlock doesn't realise he means to speak until the words are already out. Irene glances at him, and he reminds himself that he must be careful, so very careful, for if any are capable of discovering his true identity, it is Irene.

"Duh. Sherlock is hot for a crazy criminal," Sarah says.

"But Sherlock is a psychopath. He's a.....a monster."

"Sociopath," Irene says sharply (defensively) and Sherlock's eyebrows raise. "High-functioning."

Anthea nods once, while staring at her phone, as if to confirm Irene's statement. Molly pushes her hair out of her face and joins in the conversation. "The people I've spoken with talk like Sherlock is monstrous, but John's actually met him, and he said that…" Molly trails off, slapping a hand over her mouth as she looks at Mary. It has been unspoken, in their meetings of female bonding, that no one will mention John.

But Mary is shaking her head. "It's okay, Molly. It's been months now. I'm fine."

There is equal parts mirth and pain in her smile, but Sherlock cannot think of that.

"What did John say?" he asks, desperation making his bruised heart beat wild. He hopes it doesn't show in a way Irene can detect, but he doesn't know. He can't feel his face. 

Molly blinks, momentarily distracted by the movie on the television screen. "What? Oh, something about how Sherlock was 'pretty hot for a crazy guy.'"

Sherlock is silent for the rest of the evening.

 

-l-

 

"Molly reports that you have seen Sherlock Holmes in full Holmes mode."

John looks up from the gun he is cleaning to raise a brow at him. "You mean him knowing everything about everyone at first glance? Yeah."

"And you weren't repulsed?"

John chuckles. "You trying to feel me out about yourself, princess?"

Sherlock feels as if he has taken a whack from Mycroft's umbrella to the gut, air forced from his lips in a silent whoosh.

His ears ring. John knows. He has to know. He can't move. (What is this? Falling, falling, the space between highs.) His breath comes back in sudden heaving gasps, his vision swimming, the world tilting dizzyingly around him. It is one thing to show someone his abilities, to use it as a weapon… But to be found out, to be exposed without warning…he is an open wound.

A chill goes through him, and he gives a wheezing laugh simply because he's never felt cold before. (Monsters can't feel cold.)

Something blurs beside him. John's face, near his. His lips form words, but he cannot hear them. (Panic attack? PTSD? What nonsense is his love spilling now? No! No, don't touch. Tainted monster, screaming, cruel laughter. He flays me alive without even knowing. Falling, falling, falling again, no end in sight, the space between highs.)

His thoughts are tumbling, he is spinning. He can't breathe. The only thing keeping him in place is John's arm. He anchors him to Earth. He won't let him fall. (John won't push him, will he? Everyone pushes, Sherlock always pushes back. Sherlock Holmes, never silent, always speaking. John may not save the world, but he'll sure as hell try. The needle is singing. Flung from a window, flying toward space, floating towards oblivion, the Mad King is watching, the space between highs.)

He does not know how long this goes on. (Forever, a second, time flows backwards, suffocating.)

John's (right) hand (open palm) striking (red sparks) his face brings him back to himself.

John slaps him once, and he reacts, fingers digging into his throat as he hoists the shorter man up off his feet. He grabs at Sherlock's hand and he snarls like the beast that he is, sending him crashing into a table with one easy push. There is a great clatter of metal and a splash of red. Sherlock blinks as John groans, aggression turning to horror at having hurt him without meaning to.

Living amongst the agents, it is easy to forget how fragile the human body is. How delicate John's body is. There is blood on John's arm and his neck is purpling in a bruise the shape of his hand. (The mark of Sherlock Holmes, Tiger Slayer.)

"I – I did not mean… I would not hurt you without cause."

He backs away, but John will not let him, the beautiful fool, the golden idiot. He pulls himself up and steps into his space, brave even without protection, loyal without reason, and takes him gently by the hand that marked him. He guides Sherlock to sit on his workbench, kindness in his every motion. (He can be so kind, though he would deny it from the rooftops if ever called a kind man.)

John is murmuring to him, his voice threading through his hair, nonsense that becomes explanation. He is nigh inaudible at first, but grows stronger, louder the more time he has to recover from Sherlock's grip on his throat.

"Don't faint, please, take a deep breath. Stop freaking out! You freaking out is freaking me out, and when I freak out I shake in a corner on the floor. Trust me, it's not flattering. Don't feel bad about the whole throwing me thing, at least it wasn't a window or anything, right? I'm fine, okay, calm down, I'm fine. I've had worse. Count with me now, okay? 1...2...3... Anyway, the point is, being able to "deduce" doesn't make you evil or ugly or whatever it is you're worried about. In fact, it's pretty awesome, Sher. Can I call you Sher? I'm going to call you Sher."

Sherlock turns his head to glare at him, and he snickers. "Thought that would get a reaction." He grabs his hand tighter, pulling Sherlock close so that he can wrap his arms around him, his blood leaving drops of rust on his shirt. "Here's the thing: If you wanted to know what I thought about Sherlock so you could figure out how I'd react to you dropping whatever mask you've got going that makes you seem normal, don't worry about it. Sherlock was pretty badass, and I'll bet you are too."

John's leering at him now, waggling his brows, the ridiculous man. (No sense of self preservation. No, none at all.) Sherlock finds he can breathe again.

What he is about to do is impulsive and stupid and (some (Lestrade) would say) the bravest thing. Sherlock is chaos and chaos is not meant to be contained. It is both creation and destruction, and he has not destroyed anything in a very long time. Why not himself, his chances of finding a place in this realm? Why not crush the love that binds him to this bright, brilliant, normal man?

Grasping his courage with both hands, Sherlock rips his fear and filter away. He is still in disguise – that is not an option, he is a criminal and John is the agent who put him away behind bars– but now his true personality shines through, he allows his mind to clear. He takes a breath and it finally feels like it's actually him breathing, and not Sheryl Williams.

He closes his eyes and does what he has been longing to do for what feels like years; he deduces. Everything about John comes out to be displayed in the light, his secrets and his scars. Sherlock allows nothing to stay hidden, airing out the other man's soul like a rug, pushing his own mind to its limits. He talks about John's desires and his fantasies, his childhood and his experiences. The army and the field, his dreams and his nightmares. His murders. His guilt.

His emotions.

When he is finished, Sherlock opens his eyes and waits, forcing himself to look John in the face. To see his rejection from start to finish. (Will he strike him again?)

"Fuck," John breathes, full of wonder, reaching for his cheek. He holds himself very still. John traces his thumb over the freckles on Sherlock's face and he can't help leaning into the touch.

"Fucking fuck. So goddamned similar," John is muttering under his breath, staring into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock takes the chance to glides into his thoughts and read them as easily as a book (John has his guard down, and he is wearing his heart on his sleeve).

His reaction is a filthy mishmash of injured pride, professional speculation and the things he wants to do to him; dirty, kinky things that make arousal curl in his belly. (Astonishment. Why this man? Why always this man?)

John has seen his true nature in both male and female form, and he finds neither of them abhorrent. He will not delude himself into thinking John loves him. To be desired is enough.

It will be enough.

"You are going to deduce everyone I know for me," John says as he presses kisses to the column of Sherlock's pale neck. His lips are almost unbearably hot in this state of mind. "But first…" He pushes Sherlock down onto the floor, grabs a fistful of his hair and spreads his legs apart. "Lets use your mouth for other things, yeah?"

Sherlock laughs once, before his mouth is busy doing other things. 

 

-l-

 

"So, is your real name actually Sheryl?" John asks later, when Sherlock is watching him test new field equipment. Sherlock has been given the honour of helping him out, and tweaking new devices, due to his scientific and digital knowledge. John's casual acceptance and utilisation of his abilities is overwhelming. (Sherlock feels cheap with the knowledge of his lies, pain stuck deep within his chest like a wooden stake. Why does everything have to be so difficult?)

"I've been known by many as Sheryl before," Sherlock answers.

John huffs at him. "Is that a backwards way of saying 'yes'? Or are you telling me no? And how does that even work, if you're just an assistant?"

Sherlock cannot stop the smile John's curiosity brings to his face. "Whatever I may have been called before, now I am Sheryl Williams. And as for being an assistant… do you honestly think the 'Tiger Slayer' was always a personal assistant?"

"Huh." John looks at her even as he turns on his new holo-watch, the blueprint hologram hovering in the air above his wrist. It is a long look filled with much thought that Sherlock surprisingly cannot quite glean. "What are you doing here then? If you really did kill Moran, shouldn't you be, I don't know... On missions or something?"

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder. "Perhaps I have a special interest in you, John Watson."

(The truth.) The Underground is dangerous for its small population alone. With so few intelligent minds present, it is more difficult to conceal himself from the likes of Moriarty, and the Underground has no John Watson. Even Sherlock's prison afforded more conversation with John Watson. (He does not want to live the lonesome lie of being Moriarty's slave. He is a man tired of lies. The man of tired lies.)

  
"You were lonely," John says, always pushing. (He is Sherlock's, down to the last.) He wears a look that says he knows he is right.

Sherlock does something with the watch on his own wrist, and John is locked inside a laser-beam cage.

"Sher?" John calls after him as he turns on his heel and stalks from the room. "Princess? Snowflake?"

He will not leave John stranded long. That he reacts to his abilities and mind with awe and enthusiasm rather than horror is enough to make Sherlock forgive him always.

 

-l-

 

True to his word, John makes Sherlock use his skills to deduce everyone they know and meet. He wants to understand how Sherlock knows, wants to peer at people and see the same things, needs to know how and why and who and where and what. This fascination makes Sherlock wants to take John apart and put him back together until he knows every inch of him and his mind.

John say's he finds Sherlock endlessly interesting. Watching John fill the air with bullets and broken targets with a only a single press of a fingertip, Sherlock can understand the sentiment.

"So hey, how come you avoid Greg?" John asks out of nowhere one day.

Sherlock visibly flinches before reining himself in. John is gleeful. He loves it when he manages to surprise.

Again, Sherlocm can understand the sentiment.

"Lestrade is more likely than most to discern who I truly am." (Sherlock telling the truth. John will not let him float away).

"And that would be bad? I mean, he's been in the field the longest, is the Silver Fox, and you're the Tiger Slayer; I thought you guys would be getting along, trading mission stories, that sort of thing." There is something flat in his voice, something drier than his usual humorous banter.

Sherlock tilts his head. "Are you jealous, John Watson?"

John's lips are mere inches from his own. Sherlock turns to rub his cheek against John's. John leans around him so that he can continue to work on the device in his hands. "Jealous? Me? What have I got to be jealous about? Sure, he's the best, the Silver Fox, but I'm John motherfucking Watson."

"What indeed?" Sherlock says airily. "You could have anything you want." He makes his point, licking a path up John's neck with a hot tongue. (Anything, anything, how frightening to know that he would give him anything. Shock. When?)

John shudders, his eyes going dark. His pupils are dilated, a red flush in his cheeks.

"What do you want, John Watson?" Sherlock asks.

"You," John demands, voice and hands rough. He rips at his clothes, his work forgotten. "I want to see you, fee you. Fuck, yes, love that I'm the only one who feels you. I'm the only one who knows."

He does not say I love you, but he says love, and he sees and he knows.

Sherlock weeps.

His tears go unnoticed, invisible on his cheeks.

 

-l-

 

Sherlock is not meant to hear, so of course, he does.

"John, we need to talk."

"What about, Greg?"

"Can you put the gun down for a minute? This is serious."

Standing in the hall just beyond the doorway of John's arena, Sherlock makes himself invisible.

A sigh. "Fine. You've got my undivided attention for the next ten minutes. Go."

"Phillip saw you kiss Sheryl."

"Is he sneaking around in my rooms again? I told him to stop doing that. It's bloody creepy."

"John."

"Yes?"

"I don't think I need to tell you why messing with Sheryl's feelings is a bad idea. She's a sweet girl, not one of those women you can just send away when you're done with her."

"Messing with her feelings? Really? Do you hear yourself sometimes? After a certain point, Greg, the protector of virtue thing gets old."

"Sheryl is a sweet girl, and she doesn't deserve – "

John laughs, long and loud, and Sherlock can almost picture the look on his face.

"First of all, Sheryl is not a sweet girl. She's really, really not, and I mean that in the best possible way. Secondly, she absolutely deserves everything I've done with her and more." Sherlock can hear the smirk in John's voice, sex in every syllable.

"Done with her?! John!"

"And third of all, not that it matters to anyone but you, Sheryl's the only person I've been with in months."

"Months? How long…?"

"Since Mary."

"That's almost a year, John."

"Eight months."

"So… Sheryl's your girl?"

"Pretty sure Sheryl belongs to herself, Greg. But if you want to tell her otherwise, let me know ahead of time so I can sell tickets."

A relieved laugh, not John's. Lestrade's. "I'm happy for you, John."

"Why?"

"For landing a dame like Sheryl. Everybody loves her, and she seems good for you. That's why I was so worried in the first place. Everyone would miss her if she left. She's part of our family."

Sherlock chokes on his loved (at least by John) tongue.

"Easy there, mate. We just have a lot of very hot oral sex. It's not a relationship, or anything, we aren't dating. We haven't even slept together."

"Stop trying to embarrass me, John. It won't work. And you're intimate with Sheryl and spend a lot of time together, don't think you're fooling anyone. And you're faithful to her. Sounds like a relationship to me."

"Maybe I just got used to monogamy. And we seriously haven't slept together." 

"Sure, John. Whatever you say. Hey, what are you doing anyway? I've never seen a gun like that before."

"Nothing, it's nothing, new project. Want a smoothie? Yeah you do! Go get a smoothie!"

 

-l-

 

John finds Sherlock sitting alone in his room. He is watching the television without really seeing what's on it, his knees curled up to his chest. He's told the AI not to let anyone in. John must have used his override codes. (He should be angry that he dares, but truly, John's daring is one of the things he loves most. He stole Sherlock's heart in increments, will it glitter when it breaks?)

"What's up, Sher?" he asks, throwing himself down onto the bed next to him.

Sherlock does not have the words to tell him. He cannot explain it to himself. (What's the matter, tongue turned to lead?) He should be flush with triumph. Was not his plan to make a place for himself amongst Mycroft's most powerful and most intelligent? Was his desire not to make John his companion, draw him in and taint him, break him, slay him? Here he can be safe, hidden, truly himself, and never bored, not so long as he has John Watson and Irene, Anthea, Molly, Mary and the rest. He was meant to become indispensable, trusted, valued…

He never expected to be loved. He has yearned too long and been betrayed too often.

"Hey, so. Come to the arena, I made you a thing."

"Oh?" he hears himself say.

"Yeah. Don't get too excited about it, it's nothing, but yeah. Come on, I haven't got all day. Agents to see, criminals to beat, you know how it is." John fairly bounces with impatience, all the while managing to look like a lord at leisure, draped as he is across Sherlock's sheets.

Sherlock lets himself be swept along in John's wake, dragged through the halls by the hand as if by an overgrown child. John makes a point to take him the long way, through the public areas where the agents are likely to see. (Bemused. Why? Oh. Obvious. Intent.)

Anthea and Molly smile at their handholding, Donovan doesn't react at all, Irene looks fondly tolerant, Greg claps John on the shoulder as they pass, and Sarah offers Sherlock a high five, mouthing You go, girl.

They enter the arena after John has concluded his (ridiculous) little parade, and he takes them over to the wall where his guns hang.

"You want to show me a new gun design?"

I am Sherlock Holmes's, John says with his grin, his teeth very white against the pink of his lips. His eyes flash, filled with fire, and for an instant Sherlock thinks he sees the stars reflected in them. "No, Sher. I want to show you your new gear."

With a flourish, he gestures, and a panel of the wall opens to reveal a gun, blue with silver accents. It is structured differently than anything Sherlock has ever seen, obviously built with Sherlock's size, strength and height in mind. It's accompanied by countless other items, things that all the agents have, but the gun is what catches his attention and holds it. It is uique and new and beautiful, and Sherlock can barely breath.

He is speechless. John looks between him and the gear and starts babbling.

"No selection I know, but you're good enough not to need more I think, plus you can basically make anything into a weapon. Yeah. So. It's supposed to be powered by your mind, but I haven't gotten to test that yet because its attuned to you and I wanted it to be a surprise. Remember those thought wave samples I took? Why am I asking, of course you do. Well, in the samples your brain was super active, and I realised it actually functions on a different level than most peoples. A high level, almost, which is pretty cool if you think about it. Didn't give you gloves or anything like that, since I know you use your hands when you hack a lot, wasn't sure if that would interfere. You do have the watch and everything else though. I'm thinking you can use blasts from the top barrel as stabilisers for the hover board, but if you really want repulsor gloves it won't take me long to get some…"

Sherlock stares.

"Hey, Sher? Princess? Work with me here, give me something. A facial expression. An eyebrow twitch. Something. Come on. It took me days to do this, make you this gun which is all totally your own. I mean, I guess I never asked you, and you're totally smart enough to figure out on your own that I want you to join me on missions now, but I mean.....well, if you don't want to then thats fine, I totally understand, it's not a big deal or anything..."

All Sherlock can think is, He really does love me. What a trick I've played.

I am Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's, I belong to this gift of creation. My heart is John's.

The only thing he's truly lied about is his name. Gender is a construct anyways, and he knows John doesn't care. John has seen all of him, as much and more than anyone ever does, and John loves him anyway.

Sherlock finds his voice. "You built me a gun with your own two hands.." He reaches out and touches it, examining it with his hands and his eyes. "A gun more in tune with me than any other I have ever owned. It is a more than anyone has ever given me. More than I deserve." Sherlock swallows and closes his eyes. "You want me to join you. I am honoured."

(He feels a rush of power. Crickle, crackle, under his skin. This, from John, from a man who makes no promises and keeps nothing no one, this is nothing less than love. He hasn't been loved in so long.)

John is smug. "Well, I might not be a genius, but I'm pretty good with guns." John shifts. "So, does this mean you accept?"

Sherlock ignores the pain in his heart, and forcefully twists his lips into a smirk. "Equipment such as this would make a pretty bride token. Are you courting me, John Watson?"

John's smug look falters, replaced with wide eyes and parted lips. He sounds winded when he says, "What? No. It's not… Look, it's stupid anyway. If you don't want it, I'll just toss it out or something."

"I want it," Sherlock rushes to assure him, grabbing John's wrist and reeling him into his side. (I want you.) "It is mine, as is the man who made it." (I am John Watson's.) "Is this an invitation to join the team, or just you on solo missions?"

"If you want it to be."

"You think I would be a useful addition to your team?" (Deduction is cheating. How many times had Jim said that? For how long would Sherlock hear his soft voice whispering poison? Too long, too long.)

"Sher, I think you'll kick ass so hard and sexy that I'll be able to film it and sell it as spy porn."

Sherlock is surprised into a very feminine giggle. "Very well, John. I accept."

(Not that there was any chance of him saying no, not to John, never to John.)


End file.
